Black Death
by Fyreflare
Summary: The Second Plague is sweeping over the globe... Nations are falling, one by one... No one is safe... The rules are kill or be killed... The adversary is unseen, unheard, and unknown. They don't know where it's going to strike, all they know is that they need to stay safe. If a nation catches it, they won't die, only be tortured by the disease until it finally leaves their land...
1. Prologue

Italy sits in the now almost empty conference room. One by one, they've all stopped coming. Communications between them have practically ceased. The world seems like it's slowly coming to an end. At least, the younger nations think that. Despite being rather innocent, Feliciano is well aware of what has taken over the world. He has lived through it before.

He looks forlornly at Germany's empty chair. The commanding nation was one of the first to drop out. He didn't want to, but those were the orders given by his boss. Germany became isolationist, embargoing everyone and ceasing all international trade and immigration. No one gets in his borders, and no one gets out.

Japan soon followed, falling back into his ways before the wars. Italy suspects that Japan might not be seen again for a long while, even after this passes. He wonders if he'll return the same.

China left for a different reason. It started where it started before. His dense, large population proved ideal breeding grounds for the nightmare that that slowly engulfing the world: The Second Black Death.

Other nations had caught it and tried to hide it. They were found out soon enough. All trade to those countries stopped as soon as the news broke. The Asian countries either have it or are closed off to prevent getting it. Either way, the whole continent is missing. Even Russia, thought to be the strongest by many, had succumbed to the Plague. Italy hasn't seen him in months.

Europe seemed to be doing fairly well off. Only a few reported cases, and only mild ones. No country has caught it, only scattered civilians... so far. But Italy knows better. Once it starts, it doesn't stop. He remembers the streets lined with beggars, widows, orphaned children. The scent of death and blood filled the air even in his most beautiful cities. He knew it would only be a matter of time until it came to him as well.

A handful of countries remained: Spain, England, France, Canada, and America. All the rest had been quarantined, by force or choice. Spain's green eyes, which had once sparkled playfully, now stared blankly at the wooden table before him, unfocused. England and France had stopped their endless bickering, choosing instead to spend these last moments in relative peace. For a moment, one's eyes would like up with some kind of insult or petty remark to throw, but one look quickly reveals that such a comment would bring no reaction. Canada and America seem to be the only one's not affected by the mood. They sit in the corner, talking as normal countries would. Except, America never notices Canada, and Matthew doesn't talk that often.

Somehow, the collection of all this boils down to one thought. A thought that grows louder and more frustrated in his mind, eating away at him. He looks around at the others, hoping that one of them will say something, _anything_, to break the silence. None of them do. "Is this how it's going to end?" Italy asks.

Spain looks up at him, as if for the first time noticing that he's there. "What do you mean?"

Italy meets his eyes, then each country in turn, as it seems something has finally brought them out of their trance. "I mean... are we just going to sit back and let this happen? Do nothing? _Say_ nothing?"

England sighs. "Veneziano, you know as well as I, perhaps better, what's going to happen. We've lived it."

France nods. "It's the same zing zat 'appened all zose years ago. Populations are large, medicine is powerless."

From the back, Canada speaks up. "Even if we could find a cure, it changes every time it reaches a new continent. It's like a new disease. The only way to not die of it... is to not catch it."

"Yeah... about that..." America starts. "Mattie and I have been talking it over and... we're leaving. We're on our own continent. Our navies are powerful enough to prevent the spread to North and South America." He gets up, slinging his jacket over his shoulder as he walks out, Canada in tow. "Sorry, dudes. Hero's not gonna die."

Italy watches sadly as the brother's leave, but he understands. _How many more will leave? How many more will fall?_ He sighs and waits in silence a little longer, nothing else really to say. "I guess, meeting's adjourned. I'll see you next week."

The Europeans mutter in agreement and leave, one by one.

Italy closes his eyes, hiding his face in his hands. "If any are still left standing."


	2. Chapter 1

Italy hides farther into the corner of the small room, holding himself tightly for fear of falling apart. He could hear it clearly: cries of mourning women, moans of agony, gasps for breath, but most of all, coughing. All over the country, his people were dying. They called out to God, pleading for mercy, but it seems that their requests had met deaf ears. It had hit, harder than before.

Though he had been ordered to embargo as well, the plague still hit him. It started in Sicily, then crept north to him. The increased transportation just meant that it spread faster. Those who could fled the cities, but many couldn't. They were left to die.

Feliciano cringes as coughing from the room next to him grows louder and louder until... thud. Closing his eyes, he can see the body lifeless on the wooden floor, brown eyes staring blankly into nothing, blood trickling from the mouth. That wasn't the first to die here, and he knows it won't be

the last.

Electricity is gone. Only seldom few are left who know how to work it, and they have abandoned their jobs to take care of family. Same with plumbing and all previous luxuries. Before it was off, Feli had managed to contact a few of the others. Japan seems to be holding strong, not a case reported, though his methods of quarantine were much stricter than the Europeans. Germany had been cut off two weeks before Italy. Silently, Feli wonders what became of his strong friend. The Americas as well are not yet touched, due to destroying every ship or plane that didn't turn around. It didn't matter what was on that ship, as long as it came from "that filthy Europe", it couldn't dock.

Italy bites back tears as he feels more of his people dying around him. He knows that graves won't be dug in time. All previous methods of mourning had been abandoned. All that mattered was getting the bodies away so that none could be infected. Mass graves were being dug, bodies thrown in, covered with a thin layer of dirt, then more bodies on top of that. It was as if the Dark Ages had come again. The sharp scent of death fills the air in that run-down hospital. Thankfully, Feli hasn't caught it yet, at least as a human. He remembers clearly what happened last time. Weeks of agony and sickness, praying for the sweet release of death but knowing that it would never come to a nation. He had to be strong, to endure the suffering.

He shifts about gently, sending a spark of pain through his arm. He had been in the city when a mob

arose, panic causing the already on edge people to become vicious. They attacked a Jewish merchant, claiming that God had sent the plague because of them. Italy knew that this was absolutely false, but they just needed a scapegoat. Sadly, the one who took the blame was an innocent victim, his family decimated by the disease as much as everyone else's. Not that the group of men would listen to reason. Frenzies never do. He had watched as the man was brutally beat to death. He had tried to step in, save him, but the mob had thrown him against the stone wall, and he had felt something snap with the force of impact. Even a country is not invincible, just immortal.

None of the doctors could really do anything to help him. They were all busy tending to the plague victims that physical injuries meant nothing. Not like it mattered in the long run. His arm would heal on its own, given enough time. Still, that's a half year of pain versus three weeks of a cast for the same results. As much as Feliciano hated not being able to move his arms, he thinks he would prefer that to agony.

There is a knock on the door, and Feli instinctively reaches for the gun by his side, scrambling to his feet. The door creaks open slowly, revealing a figure draped in a dark, leather cloak. A wide brimmed hat sits atop his head, and his hands are covered with thick gloves. That wasn't what frightens him, though. the figure had a stark white mask, shaped like the skeletal beak of some great bird. Its eyes were the only thing that seemed human, but even these were covered in shadows cast by the hat. He looks like a messenger of death, and Feli wants no such message delivered.

"G- Get back!" he barks, his voice reaching a note higher than planned. He points the gun at the man, his hands shaking.

The figure removes his hat, tossing it aside, leaving the leather hood. This he pulls down as well, revealing shaggy brown hair. He reaches behind his head and unlatches the mask, letting it fall from his face. Two green eyes stare back at Feli from a face very much like his own. "Feliciano... it's me."

"B- brother?" Tears begin streaming down Feli's face and the gun falls from his hands. He runs at his brother, throwing his arms around him and burying his face in his cloak. "Lovino! Lovino!" he cries, sobbing into his brother's shoulder.

Romano wraps his arms around his brother, trying to comfort him. "Veneziano..." he whispers.  
Feli continues crying. "I thought I was alone! Everyone else is gone! I thought you were-! You were-!"

Romano sighs. "I know, Feli. I thought you were as well." He removes himself from Italy's grasp and holds him at arm's length. "You are never alone, fratello. Because _we_ are Italy. And we will always have each other."

Feliciano nods, only realizing now what his sudden movements did to his already injured arm. He gasps in pain, clutching it tightly to his side.

Lovino acts quickly, taking his brother's arm and examining what he could through the sleeve. "How long has it been like this?" he asks, his brows furrowed.

"Th- three days." Feli replies, biting back another yelp.

"And no one has treated it?" he demands.

Feliciano shakes his head. "The plague patients have first priority."

Romano growls under his breath. "Take off your shirt." he commands.

"Wh- why?"

"Just do it!" He begins digging through the bag he brought with him.

Confusedly, Feli removes his shirt, hissing as his arm is jostled. Dried blood is smeared along the fracture, and a sick rainbow of multi-colored bruises cover the length of his arm from the wrist to shoulder.

Romano turns and gasps at the sight of the injury. "Feli, what happened?"

"A mob. In the middle of Venice." He winces as his brother begins wiping away the blood gently, trying to set the bone back in place. "They were- gah! Killing a Jew!"

His brother shoots him an apologetic look, then begins binding the injury. "They did the same last time. I'm guessing you tried to help?"

Feli nods slowly. "Si. I couldn't just stand by and watch it happen."

Romano finishes, cutting the excess bandages with a knife. "You should have. You wouldn't have gotten hurt." he scolds.

Feli's jaw drops. "They were killing him!" he defends.

Romano's eyes become dark. "Italians die every day. French, German, British, Chinese, Russians... so what if you saved one man? What difference will it make if the plague gets him in the end?" He looks away. "Better he die violently in a few minutes than tortuously for three days." He helps Feli get his shirt back on, the injury now treated.

Feli bites his lip. "S- si, fratello." He watches as Romano puts his Venetian plague doctor uniform back on.

Romano opens the door and turns back to his brother. "Are you coming?"

Feli tilts his head in confusion, but follows anyway. "Where?"

Romano leads him out of the hospital. "Anywhere we can survive."


	3. Chapter 2

Canada shifts about in his sleep, clutching his gun. He moans softly, grimacing at some unknown specter of dreams only he can see.

America looks down at his sleeping brother, wishing that he could at least fall into a restless sleep. He hasn't slept in two days. "Mattie..." the American whispers through the darkness of the night in the battleship's quarters. "Mattie~..."

He groans, flipping over, laying on top of the gun. "Plague... Plane... Sh- shoot it..."

America rolls his eyes and jumps down from his bunk above his brother. He gently reaches over and shakes Canada's shoulder. "Matthew~..."

The Canadian tenses and curls up. "It landed... It landed!" he cries out, his eyes shut tightly. "We're going to die! Al, we're going to-!"

America clamps a hand over his brother's mouth, silencing him. "Shut up, Matt!" he growls.

Canada's violet eyes open in a panic, his blonde hair clinging to the cold sweat on his forehead. After a moment of deliriousness, he recognizes his brother's concerned and slightly annoyed physiognomy. "Alfred?" he asks timidly.

America sighs. "You were doing it again bro..."

Closing his eyes in despair, he pushes himself to a sitting position on the stiff bed. "It was just a dream... No plane?"

"No plane." He sits beside his brother, staring down at the metal floor that constantly shifts with each moment. "Not this time, anyway."

His energy gone, Canada rests his head on his brother's shoulder. "I hate this. I want to go home."

America takes a deep breath. "Yeah... me too, bro."

The brothers sit in silence, save for the creaking of metal as the ship rocks on another wave. "How much longer?" Canada asks, yawning.

"Morning in three hours." America says dully, having been staring at the clock since curfew.

"That's not what I meant and you know that, Al." Canada sighs.

America nods sullenly. "I know. I just thought maybe I could give you an answer I know."

Sleep creeps up on Canada again, making him fight to keep his eyes open. "Al?"

"Mm?" America replies tiredly, glancing over at his brother. "What is it?"

Canada wraps his arms around his brother's waist, more for support than anything. "Stay with me tonight. Maybe... I won't have nightmares with you here..."

America laughs bitterly. "You're acting like we're kids again, Mattie." he teases gently.

Canada buries his face in America's shoulder. "I'd rather be an innocent kid than a soldier forced to kill refugees." he replies, his tone laced with venom towards both of their bosses.

In his mind, America knows that the orders given make sense, but he can't help but hate his boss a little for making him destroy innocent refugees as they flee from Europe. "Alright, Matt. I'll stay."

Canada lays back down on his pillow, closing his eyes. "Are you going to sleep, Al?"

The question catches America a bit off-guard. He's silent for a bit, thinking it over. "I'll try. No promises." He gets up and reaches up to grab his pillow from his own bed, then tosses it beside Canada, who shifts to the far edge of the bed to make room for his brother. America climbs in beside him, doubting that any sleep will come that night.

Canada yawns again, laying an arm over his brother's chest. "Bonne nuit, Alfred."

Laughing softly at his brother's tired French, he closes his eyes in a feeble attempt at rest. "G'night, Mattie."

"We're going to go home soon..." Canada mumbles.

America sighs. "Why do you think that?"

"Because..." Canada snuggles into his brother's side. "We can't keep going like this forever..."


End file.
